Teaching, Tests & Retrospect

The gravel shoots out from under the tires of my ’97 Pathfinder as I wind my way toward the entrance of Hillsborough Correctional Institution. I am only forty minutes from home, but the churning in my stomach tells me I’m a lot further than that.  

I have never been to a prison, as an inmate or to visit. I’ve never even been to the county jail. “You’ll be fine,” my friend Minnette tells me that morning. She teaches art teacher here and is the one who convinced me to do a creative writing class. “There are a lot of women looking forward to it. It will be amazing. You’ll see.”

I don’t have her confidence as I park and head toward the guard house sitting in front of the barbed wire. Inside, it is stark – naked white walls streaked with dirt, a gray linoleum floor and a metal desk behind which sits a uniformed corrections officer (CO). A security scanner stands in front of a steel door on the other side of the room.

The officer checks my name on his list. “Empty your pockets and put your keys and cell phone in this bin,” he instructs. He holds out his hand for my briefcase. I reluctantly turn it over. While he paws through my bag, I walk through the scanner and am relieved when the alarm doesn’t sound. He meets me on the other side. “You’ll get your phone and keys back when you leave,” he says.

A loud buzz fills the empty room, and he points to the door. I enter another room devoid of personality. “Just keep walking,” he calls as the door slams. I do as I’m told and go through another door to find myself on the path that leads to the entrance of a large brick building.

My heart races.

I open the doors to find what resembles the lobby of a school – freshly waxed floors, unchipped paint, florescent lights. Except that on the walls are photos of every warden who’s ever helmed this prison. Some men. Some women. All in uniforms and caps. No smiles. Just stern eyes staring into the void.

“Can I help you?” An older woman in a skirt and white blouse asks. I explain why I am here, and she ushers me into the visiting room. “The warden will be with you in a few minutes,” she says.

It’s a large open area and the dingy carpet is frayed at the baseboards. On one wall there is an empty chalkboard and beneath it several milk crates filled with old toys and stuffed animals. Children’s artwork is strung with twine across two of the walls. Pictures of bright suns, flowers, stick figures, and giant hearts sit above crayon messages.

I love you Mommy.

Miss you.

When are you coming home?

There are a dozen small plastic tables and cheap chairs scattered throughout and several pay phones are attached to the wall in the far corner. “I’m Melissa, Warden Butler’s secretary,” announces a tall woman with glasses as she comes through the door. “Warden got tied up on a call and asked me to show you to your classroom.”

I follow her through the building and out the back door.

Hillsborough Correctional Institution (HCI) is a minimum/medium security female prison and one of a handful of faith-based prisons in the state. It has innovative educational programs, including college associate degrees, and houses prisoners in dorms rather than cells.

It almost feels like a college campus, until I see women in dark blue pants and short-sleeved shorts, escorted by correctional officers, moving from building to building. “Here’s the chapel,” Melissa points out as we pass a small building on the right.

“This is where our 12-step groups meet, and the women can receive counseling from the chaplain.” She waves her hand to the left and I notice a long one-story brick building with a number of doors. “All of our classes meet here,” she offers. “We have computer technology, GED, even a horticulture class from the community college.”

We walk a little further before she says, “Here we are.” We turn left and head down a short, sloped sidewalk that ends at a steel door. “There are almost a dozen women signed up,” she said. “One of the COs will bring them in after dinner and then return when class is over so he can take them back to their units.”

The desks are attached to chairs, and I set them up in a circle. I’ve been teaching creative writing for a few years at a senior center, but I am not prepared for the whirlwind of energy that traps me in the lack of freedom that permeates every square foot. I find myself needing to remember to breathe.

I’ve been told not to bring anything – paper and pencils will be provided. Pens are not permitted. So, I pretend to search my briefcase for something. Anything. I am incapable of standing still and waiting.

I hear voices and before I can gather myself, a loud group of women enters the room followed by a female officer who calls out a roster of their last names. “They’re all yours,” she says with the faintest hint of sarcasm.

Each of the women chooses a desk and sits. “I ain’t sitting in no circle,” says a large woman with her arm around a petite red head. Her face is mean and her muscles evident.

I freeze. The conflict closes my throat, and the room is silent as they wait for my response.

You’re in charge, I remind myself.

“You’re free to leave,” I respond and immediately regret my choice of words. I stutter, “What I mean is, we can call the CO back and you can return to your dorm if you prefer.”

Her lip curls like the Grinch as she helps her girlfriend into a chair and then sits. I’ve passed her test.

We talk about what they want to write. I am careful not to ask about their history. It really doesn’t matter in this context and as most of them are of color, I don’t want to appear to be the white looky-loo here only to feel better about my life.

They are talented storytellers. The grammar and syntax may not be great, but the tales they weave are engaging. And heartbreaking. Most are writing memoirs and the experiences of abuse, violence, and poverty often leave me with barely enough energy to drive home.

Trish was raped at fifteen. Her mother didn’t believe her until it became clear she was pregnant, at which point she called her a slut and threw her out of the house. At sixteen, she couch surfed with the baby and sold drugs to support herself. She gave her daughter up for adoption the first time she was locked up.

Dolly’s father was an alcoholic who beat her after her mother abandoned the family. This went on for two years until a neighbor finally called social services and she was placed in foster care. After six foster families in ten years, she became homeless when she aged out and turned to prostitution for money and crack for comfort.

Rachel’s father committed suicide when she was four. Her mother remarried to support the family and her stepfather used to force her into the bucket of a wishing well on the golf course where he worked. He lowered her to the bottom of the well for her to collect change so he could buy liquor.

The details of their stories are different, but the resulting trauma is the same. All have a deep sense of unworthiness, a fear of abandonment and a palpable desire to connect with others while being absolutely terrified to trust anyone. I keep telling myself I am only here to teach them how to write, not to fix their lives.

One week, I sneak in supplies to do a sense memory exercise – candy, essential oils, sandpaper. Their laughter fills the room as they recall experiences triggered by my contraband. We have fun and they become better writers. For twelve weeks, I show up every Tuesday evening and we create. I fight the anxiety that tries to swallow me every time I enter the guard house and they do the best they can with yellow tablet paper and golf pencils.

Some of the work is stunning and I encourage them to share by reading it out loud. A few take me up on it, tentatively trusting that their honesty won’t be used against them at some point. This is a prison, after all. Others hand me papers to read in private. Erica, the inmate who tested me at the first class doesn’t write a word. “My lady wanted to come,” she explains. “I’m here for her.”

Several weeks later, on her way out, Erica presses a thick wad of folded paper into my hand. “This for you,” she says. “No one else.”

It sits on my coffee table all weekend until I finally have the courage to read it Sunday evening. The printing is juvenile. The sentence structure elementary school level. The spelling requires me to pause occasionally to figure out what the word is. But the story…

Erica recounts the birth of her first son. She is alone and scared to go to the hospital when the contractions begin. She writes in detail how he is the product of a rape. Committed by her brother. While they lived together when she was sixteen.

She writes about her anger. How she turned to drugs. She tells me that my class has helped her recognize all of this so she can deal with it. She expresses gratitude for me not kicking her out that first night. I weep for her, not realizing that the brokenness she describes is how I feel inside. I’ve just internalized mine instead of committing crimes. And I had privileges she did not as a dark-skinned woman living in the South.

I congratulate myself for creating a safe space for her, for the fact that she trusted me, of all people, to share this deeply painful experience. And because of all of it – the overwhelming emotion I felt from her tragedy, my internal world recognizing itself in her external sharing, my belief that I could somehow help her turn her life around, I commit the cardinal sin. In my written response to her story, I share my e-mail address and tell her to reach out when she’s released.

On the final night, I am actually sad. As we say goodbye, they ask if I will return. I tell them I’ll think about it. A burly CO bangs on the door and begins to call the roster. They leave, one by one, and I thank them by name for coming. I gather my belongings and shut out the light.

As I walk up the short sidewalk, the energy feels different. Unsafe. A long, single-file line of inmates stands on the main walkway, a CO every ten women or so. I’ve seen this every time. This is how the prisoners return to their dorms after classes are over, so I search for what makes it feel different.

Then I realize. There is not one single female CO in sight.

The disparity of power stops me in my tracks. When I think of that moment now, eighteen years later, my heart still drops to my stomach. It was the last time I was ever there.

They closed HCI in 2015. A prison with one of the lowest recidivism rates in the state. A prison that some called the greatest success story in the history of the Florida Department of Corrections. A prison with 300 inmates and 500 volunteers committed to supporting the women there in creating better lives for themselves – emotionally, intellectually, and sometimes financially.

Who bought the land?

A developer.

I don’t keep in touch with anyone from that time anymore. Some have died, including my friend Minnette. Others have floated out of my life, our season together complete. Because of how Erica ended up showing up in my life after she left HCI, I used to regret that I’d ever been there. But there are women who felt love and kindness from those of us who volunteered there and chose to use it to build a new foundation. And I will forever appreciate the opportunity to have been a part of that.

For more information on HCI and the women it affected, read this article from the Observer News.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I hope you enjoy The Mosaic Platypus! Sharing stories knowing they have the power to spark memories and nurture healing is a piece of how I do my part in this world - pay my bills, donate to worthy folks in hard situations and honor my role as a link in the chain of evolution.

The capitalistic strategy of subscription levels - you can see “this” if you pay to subscribe, otherwise you only can read “that” felt icky. I want to share this writing in the most inclusive way.

If you’d like to support what I do, there are opportunities to be a part of it by purchasing a paid subscription to The Mosaic Platypus for only $5/month or making a contribution through Buy Me A Coffee. Have a great weekend!